“A contest?” Cormag Robertson said, rising to his feet with a scowl.
“Aye, Robertson. Can ye tell me you’re honestly better than Grant, or MacKenzie, or that they’re better than ye? It seems to me you’re all fine men of good fortune, brave and wealthy and fair-minded. Now tell me, how would ye decide, if ye were me?”
Cormag crossed his arms. “What sort of contest?”
Her father glanced at Gillian, and she looked placidly back at him. “There will be a number of tests of skill and wit, and the man who wins them will claim my daughter’s hand in marriage.”
Gillian felt every eye in the room turn to her. Once, she would have wanted to hide, to slide through a crack in the floor, but she wasn’t invisible anymore. She’d had an adventure, fallen in love, vanquished a band of outlaws, and jilted one gentleman at the altar for love of another. She kept her chin high as a murmur swept through the room. Her father held up his hand for silence.
“I have decided that the first contest in the competition will be . . .” She watched as her father cast his eye around the hall, at the lairds, surrounded by their fine complements of Highlanders, and at John, who stood alone, save for the men who guarded him. His back straight, his stance easy, his expression calm as he regarded her fearsome father.
Her father’s eyes roamed over the fine tapestries and the weapons that graced the walls of the ancient seat of the Fearsome MacLeods. Gillian held her breath and waited.
“Claymores,” he said at last. “Single combat. Laird MacKenzie will spar with Laird Robertson, and Laird Grant will spar with the—with John Erly.” He said John’s name as if it hurt to do so.
“The Sassenach?” Padraig Grant said. “Ishecompeting as well?”
Her father’s face remained impassive. “Aye. He has honorably asked for Gillian’s hand same as you, Padraig.”
“What are the rules?” Davy MacKenzie asked. “Are we to fight to the death?”
Donal MacLeod frowned. “Don’t be daft, Davy. Of course not. You’re lairds, and your clans need ye. Shall we say first blood? And I mean a scratch, not a beheading. In the fair Highland tradition of Finn McCoul,cothrom na Feinne, ye’ll fight one-on-one, honorably. Last man unbloodied wins the competition.”
“Then what?” Cormag asked.
Her father frowned. “What do ye mean?”
Cormag raised his chin. “If we’re speaking of Highland traditions, then I say the victor of the claymore competition must perform theGillie Callum, the ancient sword dance, as it was done by Malcolm Canmore after he triumphantly slew the traitor Macbeth in combat.”
Gillian glanced at John, but his expression didn’t change. He was Dair’s captain of the guard and he could fight with a sword, trained men for battle. That part he could win, that part would be easy. Who but a Scot knew theGillie Callum?
“Agreed,” her father said. “We’ll make theGillie Callumour second contest—tonight, after supper. Go and make ready, all of ye—we shall begin in an hour.”
Gillian kept her expression carefully blank as Keir and Tam led John out of the hall. Her father looked down at her. “Are ye satisfied with that?” he asked her.
She smiled sweetly and rose to her feet. “Aye, Papa. It should be most entertaining.”
* * *
Entertaining. . . The old Gillian would have blanched or blushed, been horrified or terrified, Donal thought. He glanced at the Englishman. Donal felt a moment of surprise at the Englishman’s courage. John Erly’s face offered no hint of dismay or doubt when he should be shaking in his boots at the very thought of facing three strong Highlanders armed with claymores, even one at a time. One wee nick, a quick scratch, and he’d lose—and hewouldlose, Alasdair Og’s captain or not. No doubt the title was an honorary one.
Was the contest too hard? Donal frowned as his men led the prisoner out. He may have promised the Sassenach a chance to compete, but he didn’t have to hope he’d win.
* * *
It was pouring rain when the competitors arrived on the training field to fight, and the field was a morass of yellow mud.
The three lairds had removed their plaids and stood wearing only their long shirts, as they would in battle. John wore his shirt and breeches. The lairds leaned on their claymores—massive swords with blades nearly four feet long, weighing six pounds. John feinted with his own borrowed weapon, learning the sword’s particular feel, watching the rain fly off the blade in a silver arc.
The battle area was ringed with spectators, four pipers, and a healer. Donal MacLeod and his daughters, Gillian included, stood under an oiled canvas awning to watch. John noted the three lairds were glaring at him with gritty malice, but he was used to that.
He kept his attention on Padraig Grant, the man he’d fight first. If he won—whenhe won—he’d fight Davy MacKenzie or Cormag Robertson. He watched Padraig warm up, learning his stance, the way he wielded his claymore. He swung high and to the right, but he had a deadly way of twisting the blade as he brought it down. John shook the water out of his eyes, slicked his hair back, and waited for the signal.
When it came, Padraig ran at him, roaring the battle cry of Clan Grant, his face filled with fury. It was easy to see why the Scots were so terrifying in battle. They were fierce and fearless. He met Padraig’s first bone-shaking strike, parried it, and spun to avoid the second. The slick ground was an added opponent, and John adjusted his footing and spun again, catching Padraig’s sword from underneath, forcing it upward. He’d trained with the best swordsman his father could buy, a hulking Spaniard, until he was as good as his teacher. At Carraig Brigh, John worked with the claymore until he could wield it as well as a rapier. He used the heavy weapon like an extension of his own body, waited for an opportunity now, and when it came, he carefully, gently, elegantly drew his blade across Padraig’s forearm. It sliced through the laird’s shirt and the top layer of his skin, doing little real harm. The Grant laird bellowed an oath as he stared at his blood mixing with the rain.
He glared at John as he stalked off the field, ignoring the hand John offered.
John glanced at Gillian and saluted her with the sword before he lowered it and waited for the outcome of the match between Davy MacKenzie and Cormag Robertson.
